For the first half of the third week, there was no news at all . . . until Thursday, when, before dawn, Caterina received an urgent summons from the doctor, who wrote that “Ser Giovanni’s condition is dire, come at once.”
Caterina dashed down the stairs and swung onto a horse. For once, I did not follow. Perhaps it was because I believed that Ser Giovanni could not have deteriorated so swiftly; he was too young and strong, and so recently in robust health. Even Lorenzo the Magnificent, who had been stricken hardest of all by gout, had survived to the age of forty-three.
Morning and midday passed with no word. In the late afternoon I climbed a parapet to look to the south, and the road leading to San Piero. I stood there until dark, and still there was no sign of a rider.
When morning came again I fell prey to a growing uneasiness and climbed up once more to Ravaldino’s roof. It was mid-September, and the sun was strong, but the breeze cool. No doubt the sentinels thought I was simply taking the sun, but I remained, pacing slowly from battlement to battlement, staring south for almost an hour.
At last I spotted black forms moving steadily across the road, kicking up dust. As they neared, I made out two riders, a carriage, and two wagons, one laden with goods. The second wagon appeared empty from a distance.
I hurried down several flights of stairs to the main entrance, where the horses’ hooves were still clattering. The riders were two of Giovanni’s men-at-arms, and their gazes were fixed straight ahead as they reined their horses to a stop and dismounted. After they handed the reins off to a groom, one of them opened the door to the carriage. Caterina emerged, her features as set as stone; when she first caught my gaze, I saw a flicker of raw emotion behind the mask. She would not speak; her demeanor was a warning to those who might dare to trouble her with words.
Her steps echoed as she passed me. I turned finally to look at the last wagon, which was not empty after all, but bore a long, slender coffin made of freshly hewn wood.
Chapter Thirty-two
After Ser Giovanni left us, the world grew uglier with each passing day. Caterina immersed herself in silence; she would not discuss her grief, even with me, but went about her daily business with an unsmiling, strained expression. Her one desire was to entomb her beloved husband in Ravaldino so that she would someday be buried with him, but Giovanni’s brother, Lorenzo, retrieved Giovanni’s body so that it could be buried in the Medici-sponsored church of San Lorenzo in Florence, not far from where the old Palazzo Medici lay.
A grim Christmas passed, and not long after New Year’s, unhappy news came: Venice had signed a treaty with France, which meant that the way was now clear for King Louis to march into Italy by way of Milan. The time came for me to show Caterina the letter from Luca stating that the Borgias had allied themselves with France and were eager to claim Forlì and Imola for themselves.
Duke Ludovico was extremely nervous about the invasion; try as he would, the French would not negotiate with him, nor would Pope Alexander. Distraught, he contented himself by buying as many mercenaries and artillery as he could afford. As he now had few friends, he promised Caterina his full support. Caterina had no illusions; the French army was one of the most powerful in Europe, and if Ludovico met them in battle, he had best have luck on his side. Yet after Ser Giovanni’s death, Caterina had not been able to put her mind to anything, much less politics. I had hoped that Luca’s letter of warning might stir her to action, but she did nothing.
That changed early in March, when a dozen horsemen bearing Borgia’s papal coat of arms rode into the meadow across from Ravaldino and sounded a trumpet. The commander insisted on speaking to Caterina and Ottaviano at once.
The two appeared on the battlements. Caterina wisely would not go to meet them, nor would she let them enter the fortress. Instead, she forced them to read aloud the papal bull signed by Alexander and seventeen of the cardinals in the Sacred College.
“To that daughter of iniquity, Caterina Sforza, and her son, Ottaviano Riario . . .”
I was outraged that a man like Borgia could accuse my mistress of “iniquity.” Interestingly, the bull never mentioned Caterina’s marriage to Giovanni or her new son. Instead, it falsely claimed that for the past three years, Caterina had refused to pay the required annual tribute to the Apostolic Treasury “despite continual warning.”
At that, Caterina let go a short, sarcastic laugh. “That’s a lie!”
Girolamo’s agreement when he left Rome specified that he would continue to receive his captain’s salary. The Vatican never paid it, and for the past eleven years, Caterina had been allowed to deduct her tribute from it. If anything, the Vatican owed her money, but the commander ignored her and continued to read.
Such rebellious and arrogant behavior had forced Pope Alexander to invest the captain of the papal army, Cesare Borgia, with Imola and Forlì. Caterina and her family should pack their possessions and leave at once, lest Captain Borgia be forced to take military measures to claim his new property.
Caterina took Ottaviano’s hand and cried out, in a clear voice: “These charges are false and easily disproven. Tell His Holiness Pope Alexander that I shall send an envoy to Rome who will prove that a mistake has been made.”
I was surprised by her response, yet after a moment’s reflection, came to understand it. She was responding to the bull in good faith, as though the charges were sincere, thus forcing Alexander either to find another excuse, or to give up all pretense and admit to his naked and illegal ambition.
More important, she was stalling the invasion, and winning herself more time.
Caterina immediately recruited one of Forlì’s most prominent citizens, a Doctor dalle Selle, learned in medicine and law and the art of accounting. The very next day he was off to Rome, and was surprised and pleased to be offered access to the papal treasury’s records. They revealed that the treasury owed the Riario sixty thousand ducats. Dalle Selle was ecstatic, and Caterina relieved.
Still, it made no difference. The pope refused to grant the doctor an audience, and not one cardinal in Rome, including Raffaele Riario and della Rovere, would receive dalle Selle to listen to his tale of injustice.
When the crestfallen dalle Selle returned, he brought back with him a new phrase that was on every Roman’s lips: the Borgia Terror. Pope Alexander and his son needed money for their war, and had discovered that murdering their enemies in the Sacred College was an efficient way to raise it, since a cardinal’s property and wealth reverted to the Church upon his death. And the wily Rodrigo Borgia had perfected a poison that killed slowly, within days instead of hours, without arsenic’s telltale symptoms. Already the fearful citizens of Rome had given it a name: cantarella.
Even before Doctor dalle Selle had learned the truth in Rome, Caterina began making preparations for war, funneling whatever grief she felt over Ser Giovanni’s death into decisive action. Despite the threat of a French invasion, Milan was still one of the mightiest forces in Italy, and Caterina made good use of her uncle Ludovico’s sudden unequivocal support of Imola and Forlì. She took whatever arms he would spare, and recruited some of his most talented fighters, including her older brother, Alessandro Landriani, and Dionigi Naldi, a much-respected castellan. She even recruited the respected condottiero Scipio, a natural son born to Girolamo before he married Caterina, whom she treated as a favored relative. She hired the unruly mercenary commander, a French-born Italian named Gianotto, who brought with him an undisciplined group of Gascons; Caterina set them and the townsfolk to work on strengthening Ravaldino’s fortifications and the city walls. Even Ottaviano set aside his slothfulness to work alongside the others, shoveling tunnels and pushing heavy carts filled with dirt.
But Caterina was too shrewd to rely upon a single ally, even though no one in those days believed that the powerful duchy of Milan could ever be overthrown. Besides strengthening the ties with her uncle, Caterina sent a message to Florence, asking to meet with a diplomat to discuss an alliance. Her marriage to Giovanni de’ Medici and her clo
se ties to his surviving older brother, Ludovico di Pierfrancesco, were proof enough of her predisposition toward the city—and there was also the fact that her preferential sales of vast quantities of wheat to famine-struck Florence had saved its people from starvation. At that time the Republic had been so grateful to the Lady of Forlì that they had made her an honorary citizen. Where was their gratitude now?
Florence was still a French ally, and would therefore be spared during the invasion. If Imola and Forlì could be inserted into the alliance, they, too, would be spared. If not, Florence still owed Caterina military support. And there was the matter, too, of Ottaviano’s military condotta. An agreement concerning his price still had to be negotiated.
Months passed, but the Florentines gave no reply. Caterina pressed again, without success. Finally, in late July, their emissary appeared.
Niccolò Machiavelli was tall, with long limbs and wide shoulders, both of which emphasized the surprisingly small size of his egg-shaped head. His foreshortened jaw made his forehead appear abnormally high, especially given his receding hairline. His hair was odd, too, cut so short on the top that it seemed shaved, yet it was long in the back and on the sides, where he tucked it behind his ears. His eyes were small and darting, his brows narrow and thin; his long, straight nose was his most fortunate feature.
Caterina received him in Paradise, her thronelike chair set with its back to a great window that looked onto the Apennines. After introducing himself with an awkward bow, the unlikely diplomat stood back and waited for his hostess to speak.
Caterina did. Normally, such encounters took place over days, with much entertainment, food, and drink, yet Machiavelli looked to be impervious to distraction. He wore all black, like a priest, and clasped his hands at his waist like an attentive pupil. At my lady’s urging, I poured her a cup of wine and offered one to Ser Niccolò; he refused it.
After numerous failed attempts to engage her visitor in small talk, Caterina proceeded to the matter at hand. “I have spoken numerous times to my uncle, the Duke of Milan,” she said. “He is very eager to give Ottaviano a condotta, and has offered him twelve thousand ducats.” Florence, at this time, was offering ten thousand. “And His Grace says that Ottaviano will receive a number of honors, as well.” She paused. “I am very much tempted to accept it, even though Ottaviano wants badly to go to Florence.”
“It is good,” Machiavelli said pleasantly, “to have such loyal family.”
Grasping the arms of her chair, Caterina leaned toward him. “I, too, would far prefer that Ottaviano go to Florence. But the condotta is meaningless to me unless it comes with military backing for Forlì and Imola.”
Machiavelli regarded her impassively. “Are you asking whether Florence can provide you with men and arms?”
Caterina gazed at him with faint scorn; she was used to ambassadors who grasped delicacy and nuance and the importance of winning a friend, not just negotiating a contract. “Is that not why you are here, to discuss just such a thing?”
Machiavelli glanced down briefly at his carefully clasped hands. “I am here,” he said, “to discuss your son’s military position in Florence, and his recompense. The Republic has not granted me the authority to speak to you about an alliance.”
Caterina clicked her tongue in disgust and recoiled. “Then you had best get permission as soon as possible,” she countered.
The diplomat tried to stammer a reply, but Caterina waved him silent.
“Tell your Republic this,” she said. “I have grain, and you have need for it; when the French finally come—whether Florence is their ally or not—your citizens will want for food unless you are well supplied. As for the condotta, twelve thousand is a paltry sum, considering that Ottaviano brings his own weaponry and armor.”
With that, she dismissed him, and left him to wander about Paradise to find his own entertainment.
A week passed—sufficient time for Machiavelli to have received a reply from his government. Caterina summoned him a second time, again dressing like a queen and sitting on her “throne” in front of Ravaldino’s best view of the Apennines.
“I have good news,” Ser Niccolò said, his tight little smile a bit brighter than usual. “I have communicated with our city council. Owing to the fact that you are supplying Ser Ottaviano with weaponry and armor, we are pleased to offer him a condotta for a salary of twelve thousand ducats.”
“Ottaviano will be happy to accept the offer,” Caterina replied, “provided that Florence’s protection of Imola and Forlì comes with it.”
Machiavelli’s cheeks and nose faintly reddened. “It does not, Your Illustriousness. The council refused me permission to discuss it.”
Caterina rose. “If Florence can spare neither men nor arms,” she said acidly, “then the least she can do is list me as her ally, so that neither the French nor Cesare Borgia have the right to invade my lands.”
With that, she strode from the room, as Machiavelli called after her: “I will see, Your Illustriousness, what I can do.”
Machiavelli was true to his word. Two weeks later, word came that Florence had listed Caterina Sforza as her ally. King Louis reacted by saying, “She is an enemy of His Holiness Pope Alexander; I cannot go against the pope’s wishes.”
Alexander scoffed, insisting that such a move by Florence was invalid.
Even as we were reeling at such news, worse came from Caterina’s uncle. Louis XII’s troops—more than ten thousand of them—had crossed the Alps and invaded Milan, forcing Duke Ludovico to flee for his life. Mighty Milan was now in French hands; the die was cast.
Those who did not know Caterina well expected her to take as many of her possessions as possible and flee; there was time, as the French army was well north of us, and Borgia had not yet reached the Romagna. Florence would welcome her, and she could remain there until Alexander, thirty years her senior, died. With luck, Cardinal della Rovere might finally be elected to the papacy and reinstate Caterina as Lady of Forlì.
But unlike her uncle, Caterina would not flee. She was too proud to bow to the likes of the Borgias; even so, she would not risk her children, especially her beloved little Giovanni. She sent him and his brother Cesare to Florence, where they would be tenderly cared for by the nuns at the convent of Le Murate. Ottaviano insisted on remaining with his mother. But many carts loaded with Caterina’s valuables left Ravaldino for Florence, where her brother-in-law would keep them safe. There were a few fine things she kept: a slender mother-of-pearl perfume vial that had somehow survived unscathed, and the fine Toledo halberd Rodrigo Borgia had given her years ago.
I sent a few precious items to Florence, but many things I could not part with: the book by Ficino that Ser Giovanni had given me, my triumph cards, and all of my brother Matteo’s writings, including the diary, magical diagrams, and the mysterious brown powder.
As if I could summon the angel after all these years, now that everything was lost. As if it would swoop down from Heaven and rescue us all.
Stripped of its brocade and velvet appointments, its carpets, paintings, tapestries, and fine furniture, Paradise was stark and ghostly; our voices echoed off the bare walls and floors. Gone were the sounds of children’s laughter and servants’ gossip; instead, we heard the commander’s bark as the soldiers drilled down in the walled-in yard. Caterina dismissed all household servants who expressed fear of the coming invasion and had me move my things upstairs to her bedroom, where I slept beside her. By then it was almost winter, and the gray sky and ceaseless drizzle only added to our sense of gloom.
Late one night, in the hours before dawn, I woke to a crashing storm and realized that Caterina was no longer in the bed next to me. I called softly to her, but received no reply; concerned, I lit the lamp. She was not in the bedchamber, so I rose and walked barefoot on Paradise’s cold stone floors searching for her.
On impulse, I went down the narrow, stifling corridor that led to the water closet. Caterina almost always preferred the chamber pot at ni
ght, especially in cold weather, and it was my habit to empty it every morning in the water closet, pitching the offal down to land in the latrine several floors below.
But this night, apparently, was different; I could see the glow of a lamp as I approached the open door. I covered my nose at the stench, and peered inside to find Caterina.
She was so engrossed in her work that she had not heard me come. On the stone bench, as far as possible from the opening where one sat to do one’s business, sat the lamp, next to a shallow bowl with a sip’s worth of water in it. Beside the bowl was a piece of parchment set upon a brass plate, and beside the parchment, a lovely mother-of-pearl vial lay on its side, its stopper in place. Save for her eyes and forehead, Caterina’s face was covered by an old woolen scarf; thick leather riding gloves covered her hands. She dipped a piece of uncombed wool the size of a coin carefully into the water, then, working quickly so that it did not drip, brushed the wool over the parchment, and waited for the water to be absorbed.
“Poison,” I blurted as the realization struck me. I had been puzzled by the fact that she had kept such a fine thing instead of sending it away.
Caterina deliberately set the wool back into the water, then turned, frowning. Her words were muffled, but her gestures were quite clear: I was to touch nothing, but leave immediately.
I returned to bed. When she at last returned, her scarf and gloves were gone—presumably tossed into the latrine—and the pretty vial, now stoppered, was in her hand. She disappeared into the closet to stuff it into the bottom of one of two remaining trunks. At her bidding, I poured water from the pitcher over her hands as she held them over the basin.
Once she had dried them, I voiced the question again. “That was poison, wasn’t it, Madonna?” My tone held disapproval.
Caterina swung her legs onto the bed and pulled up the covers. “It was a gift,” she said matter-of-factly, “from Rodrigo Borgia, many years ago. I’m simply returning it to him . . . without the vial.” She paused. “The parchment is drying on the plate in the water closet. Don’t touch them—either could kill you. When it’s ready, I’ll deal with it myself. Put out the lamp, will you?”
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